Book Spotlight and Excerpt: Run with the Hare, Hunt with the Hound by Paul M. Duffy

 

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On a remote Gaelic farmstead in medieval Ireland, word reaches Alberic of conquering Norman knights arriving from England. Oppressed by the social order that enslaved his Norman father, he yearns for the reckoning he believes the invaders will bring—but his world is about to burn. Captured by the Norman knight Hugo de Lacy and installed at Dublin Castle as a translator, Alberic’s confused loyalties are tested at every turn. When de Lacy marches inland, Alberic is set on a collision course with his former masters amidst rumours of a great Gaelic army rising in the west. Can Alberic navigate safely through revenge, lust, and betrayal to find his place amidst the birth of a kingdom in a land of war?

 

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 Excerpt

Underworld
 

I was still young when the fulcrum began its pitch. Fortune’s wheel clanking around in its inscrutable way. It was the year that the sky ships were seen in Ard Macha. A silver host, spectral and gold illuminated the heavens, emerging from the cloud with their glistening sails and their ghostly hosts peering down, blazing with light on the men below who shrank from them in terror. And in that year also, the crozier of the bishop of Cluin Ioraird spoke to its owner, words of radiance and doom setting the kingdom alight.

Though we saw no such miracles to presage coming things, the Tiarna had a dream. He saw a great light rise from the mound on Cnuc Bán. A sídhe mound guarding the high pass over the valley and below – a stag belling, a wild dog of two colours devouring a heron’s nest and above, a sun rising in the west, spreading brightness over a darkened east. A weapon shining at the heart of the mound. A weapon of immense power.

The Tiarna ignored the words of his wife and councillors, he disregarded his ollamh, he closed his house to the monk and chewed his thumb long into the night. Night after night ruminating beside ashen fires, forging his resolve. Until, one darkening day, he sat on his horse commanding the unthinkable. Watching us scrabble and shift moss-thick stones from the ancient cairn. We worked in silence, frantic in our task, working to quieten the dread that rang out in each of our heads. To stave off the flesh-creep as hour after hour, we watched the sun pass its peak and begin to drop away westwards over the shoulder of the cairn. The mound’s passive bulk thrumming with threat, and the geis-breaking sound of stones rolling free, rising to swallow everything else. Swallowing the champ of the standing horses, the rare lilts of the wind through the woodland below, the keening of buzzards circling. We cast the stones out beyond the kerbing into the heather, hoping they would land soft. Flinching at each cracking strike as they collided with hidden rock among the furze. Dread and skeletal hands clenching slowly within our skulls as the darkness thickened in the east.

‘Ho,’ Lochru cried out – the first human sound in hours and he came around the curve of the mound, his palsied face white, his hands trembling. He motioned to the Tiarna who urged his horse onwards. Tuar, his ollamh and the monk, Milesius cantering on also. We all followed to where the youth Fiacra stood, unnaturally still, his eyes fixed upon something in the scree. With great reluctance, he raised his hand and pointed at an opening which showed amongst the loose stone. Two rough pillars leaning towards each other, forming a narrow doorway as wide as the span between fist and elbow.

We stood steaming in the cold. Shudders passed among us and Milesius, hand on the psalter hanging in a satchel at his side, mumbled Latin incantations. The Tiarna gazed coldly. He looked to where his son, Conn stood by, leaning on a spear. I saw the subtle question in the Tiarna’s eye. I saw Conn’s face lowering to the ground, refusing the wordless request and, to disguise Conn’s refusal, the Tiarna’s voice came sudden and barking.

‘Send in the Sasanach,’ he said without looking in my direction and my bowels dropped within me. I stared ahead at the terrible and absolute blackness, a blackness that inhaled the failing light, and did not move. Lochru came towards me, grabbing my arm and pulling me past him with a blow that cupped the back of my skull. I staggered forward, feet twisting among the stones, and fell to my knees before the doorway, backing instantly, as if from a wild beast. I looked to the Tiarna on his horse and Milesius at his side. Their faces as hard as the stone of the hill. I breathed through my nose, a forceful breath. Another. And another. I made the sign of the cross, rose, commending myself to God and the Saints Patricius, Féichin, Lasair and stepped forward.

I moved towards the dragging blackness. Towards the mouth of the underworld. Towards the realm of the sídhe. I approached as if approaching cold water, step by step, clenching something deep within. My hand reached out to touch a pillar and its frigid surface drew the warmth from me. I turned side-on, a welling panic, though I did not stop. I slid my shoulder into the gap and pushed my chest through, feeling the pillars scrape at once along my spine and breastbone. I dipped my head, without looking back and entered the dark.

The space within forced me to crawl and I advanced blindly, my bulk blocking the light from the opening. The stones pressed in all around so that I could neither stand nor turn. Pools of water splashed beneath me, a dead air, stale in my lungs. My eyes moved wildly around, though nothing changed in the depthless dark. Hands slipped and scraped and I struck my head frequently on the uneven roof. Yet I moved, and in moving there was hope.

 Paul Duffy

Paul Duffy, author of Run with the Hare, Hunt with the Hound (2022), is one of Ireland’s leading field archaeologists and has directed numerous landmark excavations in Dublin as well as leading projects in Australia, France and the United Kingdom.

He has published and lectured widely on this work, and his books include From Carrickfergus to Carcassonne—the Epic Deeds of Hugh de Lacy during the Cathar Crusade (2018) and Ireland and the Crusades (2021). He has given many talks and interviews on national and international television and radio (RTÉ, BBC, NPR, EuroNews).

Paul has also published several works of short fiction (Irish Times, Causeway/Cathsair, Outburst, Birbeck Writer’s Hub) and in 2015 won the Over the Edge New Writer of the Year Award. He has been shortlisted for numerous Irish and international writing prizes and was awarded a writing bursary in 2017–2018 by Words Ireland.

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Book Spotlight and Excerpt: Floats the Dark Shadow by Yves Fey

 

Young American painter Theodora Faraday struggles to become an artist in Belle Époque Paris. She’s tasted the champagne of success, illustrating poems for the Revenants, a group of poets led by her adored cousin, Averill.

When children she knows vanish mysteriously, Theo confronts Inspecteur Michel Devaux who suspects the Revenants are involved. Theo refuses to believe the killer could be a friend—could be the man she loves. Classic detection and occult revelation lead Michel and Theo through the dark underbelly of Paris, from catacombs to asylums, to the obscene ritual of a Black Mass.

Following the maze of clues they discover the murderer believes he is the reincarnation of the most evil serial killer in the history of France—Gilles de Rais. Once Joan of Arc’s lieutenant, after her death he plunged into an orgy of evil. The Church burned him at the stake for heresy, sorcery, and the depraved murder of hundreds of peasant children.

Whether deranged mind or demonic passion incite him, the killer must be found before he strikes again.

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 EXCERPT

The Concert in the Catacombs—Floats the Dark Shadow

A thousand candles burned in the darkness of the catacombs.

A thousand flames wavered, golden lights bending and rising with the doleful ebb and flow of the music.

Repelled and fascinated, Theo watched their flickering glow caress the curved domes of the skulls. Tinted by candlelight, the naked bones took on a sepia patina like sacred reliquaries carved from amber. A shiver swept her. Nothing—not her delight in the outrageous, nor the wickedly delicious thrill of the forbidden, not even the inspiration the images would bring to her art—nothing overcame her sense of oppression. They were deep in the earth. Room after endless room of bones surrounded them.

The black hollows of the eye sockets seemed to watch the concert as attentively as the audience of chic Parisians still clothed in mortal flesh and fancy silks, still breathing the dank, stifling air of the chamber. As the last notes of Chopin’s Marche Funèbre echoed, the gathering applauded with fervent solemnity, saluting the musicians’ skill and their own daring in coming here. Elegant in their tuxedos, the orchestra lowered their instruments with a flourish and rose, first bowing to their guests, then once again to their skeletal hosts. Theo smiled and clapped with them, fighting off her apprehension.

“They call this the Empire of Death.” Averill leaned close and Theo bent to meet him. In the eerie light, the smile hovering at the corners of his mouth shifted from sweet to sinister and back again. His breath caressed her face, and she caught a hint of absinthe. The scent churned up a chaos of emotion—concern, frustration, anger, yearning.

A pang of jealousy.

How perfectly Parisian, she thought, to be jealous of a liqueur.

When had his flirtation with the green fairy become a love affair? Two months ago, four? He called absinthe his muse, but she stole as much as she gave. Under her influence, Averill’s moods grew ever more erratic and his exquisite, fantastical poems ever more bizarre.

A fierce impulse surged through Theo’s turmoil—to paint Averill as he looked now, bitter and sweet, taunting and tender. She envisioned him almost emerging from the canvas. Strands of dark hair tumbled over his eyes, pale blue flames glowing too bright within the shadows. Patches of rose madder made a fever flush on both cheeks. Her fingers twitched eager to render mustache and beard in quick, narrow strokes of lamp black touched with indigo, a frame for the quick twist of a smile that mocked the world and himself.

Theo forced a smile in response. “The Empire of Death. So you’ve said.” “Three times at least, Charron,” Paul Noret sneered from the seat on her other side. “Before, during, and after your nightly tryst with the green fairy.”

Slouched in his chair, Paul looked too much at home in this underground kingdom, like a strange insect god, half man and half praying mantis. His body was long and bony, his face cadaverous. Shadows carved crescents into his lean cheeks and scooped out circles under his eyes, which bulged slightly, and glistened. His hair was prematurely grey, the color of ashes, and aged him a decade or more. Paul was thirty-four—thirteen years older than she was, and ten years older than Averill.

“You should sip the green ambrosia, Noret, and cavort with her yourself,” Averill said.

Paul scowled. “Absinthe rots the brain.”

“Ahh...but your poetry will soar."

“Not if your twig-bound twitters are any example.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. A stinging retort sprang to Theo’s lips, but she bit it back when she felt Averill’s light pressure on her arm. He leaned across her to taunt Paul in turn. “Twitters? When people hear twitters, they pause. They smile. They listen. If they hear barking, they shut their ears—or throw shoes.”

Paul examined his scuffed boots. “These were acquired just so. They cost but a single barking couplet.”

Theo relaxed, glad the jab had been too wide of the mark to cut Averill. They were all used to Paul’s forays but always en garde. They ignored him at their peril. What seemed to be a feint might suddenly pierce the heart. They’d look down to discover their idea, their verse—or their art—mercilessly skewered. But that same deadly skill made Paul chief critic to the group of poets and musicians who had invited Theo into their midst. Since the success of Le Revenant, Paul seemed to have doubled his criticism. Was it jealousy? Paul’s harsher poems had won praise too, but not as much as Averill’s. Perhaps Paul was forestalling vanity from the proclamations of Averill as the new Rimbaud, the new Verlaine.

Absinthe had destroyed Verlaine.

Averill gestured dramatically at the skulls crowning the wide pillar of tibias and fibulas. “We have set ourselves in the Empire’s heart, in the sanctity of the Crypte de la Passion.”

“It is so perfectly decadent,” Theo murmured. The word was a magic key that opened many intriguing doors in Paris. Yet when Averill nodded yes, another part of Theo’s mind whispered rebelliously, So perfectly horrible… So horribly sad….

“Yes.” Averill gave her another conspiratorial smile as if he heard and agreed with each silent pronouncement.

 Yves Fey

 

Yves Fey has MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Oregon, and a BA in Pictorial Arts from UCLA. Yves began drawing as soon as she could hold a crayon and writing at twelve.  

She’s been a tie dye artist, go-go dancer, creator of ceramic beasties, writing teacher, illustrator, and has won prizes for her chocolate desserts. Her current obsession is creating perfumes inspired by her Parisian characters.

Yves lives in Albany with her mystery writer husband and their cats, Charlotte and Emily, the Flying Bronte Sisters.

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Book Spotlight and Excerpt: The Old Dragon’s Head by Justin Newland

 

The Great Wall of China may be constructed of stone and packed earth, but it is home to a supernatural beast – the Old Dragon. Both wall and dragon protect China’s northern borders from Mongol incursion. Just beyond the fortress of Shanhaiguan, the far eastern end of the wall protrudes into the Bohai Sea – that’s the Old Dragon’s Head.

Bolin, a young man working on the Old Dragon’s Head, suffers visions of ghosts. The local seer suspects that he has yin-yang eyes and other supernatural gifts. Bolin’s fief lord, the Prince of Yan, rebels against his nephew, the Jianwen Emperor. In the bitter war of succession, the Mongols hold the balance of power. While the victor might win the battle on earth, China’s Dragon Throne can only be earned with a Mandate from Heaven – and the support of the Old Dragon.

In every era, a man endowed with the powers of heaven – the Dragon Master – is born. Only he can summon the Old Dragon, providing he possesses the dragon pearl. It’s the year 1402, and neither the Old Dragon, the dragon pearl, nor the Dragon Master, has been seen for twenty years. 

Bolin’s journey of self-discovery is mirrored by that of old China, as both endeavour to come of age. When Bolin accepts his destiny as the Dragon Master, heaven sends a third coming of age – for humanity itself. But are any of them ready for what is rising in the east?

 

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 EXCERPT

The rising sun shone on the prince’s magnificent black stallion. With a regal wave, he acknowledged the rousing welcome echoing along the battlements. Standing near to the prince, an equerry held the reins of a riderless horse, its armour bedecked in the red and gold livery of a commanding officer. That must be the dead general’s. 

Bolin could smell the sweat of the two horses and see their mud-caked hooves. But his headache returned, accompanied by an incessant ringing in his ears. An eerie feeling crept over him like an early morning mist over the moors. 

The prince’s steed seemed unnerved as well, because it pawed the ground, kicking up spurts of the damp earth, which agitated the riderless horse. The prince hauled on his reins, but it resisted, snorting loudly.

The riderless mount bucked its head, throwing off the dead general’s armour, which clattered onto the unyielding earth. The equerry patted him on the back while pulling on its tether. Instead of calming the beast, its nostrils flared and its eyes opened wide as if in terror.

Amidst cries of alarm, all Bolin could hear was heavy thrumming against his temples. The air in front of him seemed cloudy, full of swirling strands of ch’i. The ch’i currents whirled around the cavalry, who seemed unaware of its invisible presence. Three paces in front of the prince’s horse, an ethereal figure emerged from the spectral mists. Bolin inhaled sharply. Who or what is that?   

The spectral figure menaced the prince’s horse, which neighed and kicked its hooves wildly. Straining every sinew, the prince hung on to his reins for dear life.

Bolin noticed thick crimson streaks running like the tracks of a wagon wheel across the man’s chest. A dried stream of blood that had flowed from a missing ear now caked the warrior’s neck and shoulder. In his hand, the man clutched a tattered, blood-speckled parchment. The spectral figure was wearing silk of gold and red – a general’s uniform. 

The ghostly figure struck fear into the dead general’s horse, which reared up, snorting. Unable to handle it, the equerry let go of the reins, slipped and fell. The horse’s whirling hooves crashed on his head, splitting it like an egg, splattering brains and gore over the prince’s silken uniform.

The world stopped. The prince stared at the blood on his damask tunic. The column held its collective breath. A pall of silence descended on the ramparts, the initial playful welcoming atmosphere suffocated by a moment of horror. In that hiatus, Bolin seemed the only one still awake and aware. He could see what was happening. Why couldn’t they? In that suspended moment, he felt as if some demon, some errant spirit, occupied his being, as if – he was possessed. The weird, eerie feeling passed almost as quickly as it had come, releasing his voice to shout as loud as he could, “A ghost! There! Look!”

He stabbed his finger at the spectre.

His words broke the spell that shackled the world. Fright and loathing replaced the cheers from the battlements and all mayhem broke loose. Horses reared, throwing riders onto the ground. Soldiers rushed around like frantic geese, spreading chaos. The dead general’s horse ran off by the side of the moat. Riders from the column gave chase. Commotion surrounded the prince, who clung to the reins for dear life. A military physician ran across the drawbridge to care for the injured.

Cui’s cries of alarm rent the air. “Who? What are you talking about?” The old soldier yelled.

“It’s General Shimei. Can’t you—?

“I don’t see anything,” Cui interrupted him. “Besides, I told you that he’s dead!” 

“I know. It’s a ghost. He’s there!” Bolin felt like his face was about to explode with rage. 

A voice of authority calmed the dispute. “I see him. Leave this to me.” It was Dong, the Abbot of the local temple. In moments, the Taoist monks struck up a clamour on their drums and cymbals, unnerving the general’s ghost. As Dong led them towards the spectre, it shimmered around the edges, lost its human form and gradually melted back into the clouds of ch’i like a man sucked into quicksand.

 Justin Newland

Justin Newland is an author of historical fantasy and secret history thrillers – that’s history with a supernatural twist. His historical novels feature known events and real people from the past, which are re-told and examined through the lens of the supernatural.

His novels speculate on the human condition and explore the fundamental questions of our existence. As a species, as Homo sapiens sapiens – that’s man the twice-wise – how are we doing so far? Where is mankind’s spiritual home? What does it look or feel like? Would we recognise it if we saw it?

Undeterred by the award of a Doctorate in Mathematics from Imperial College, London, he found his way to the creative keyboard and conceived his debut novel, The Genes of Isis (Matador, 2018), an epic fantasy set under Ancient Egyptian skies.

Next came the supernatural thriller, The Old Dragon’s Head (Matador, 2018), set in Ming Dynasty China.

His third novel, The Coronation (Matador, 2019), speculates on the genesis of the most important event of the modern world – the Industrial Revolution.

His fourth, The Abdication (Matador, 2021), is a supernatural thriller in which a young woman confronts her faith in a higher purpose and what it means to abdicate that faith.

His stories add a touch of the supernatural to history and deal with the themes of war, religion, evolution and the human’s place in the universe.

He was born three days before the end of 1953 and lives with his partner in plain sight of the Mendip Hills in Somerset, England.

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Twitter: @drjustinnewland

 

Book Spotlight and Excerpt: A Turbulent Peace by Paul Walker

 

January 1919.

Following the armistice, Mary Kiten, a volunteer nurse in northern France, is ready to return home to England when she receives a surprise telegram requesting that she report to Paris. The call comes from her Uncle Arthur, a security chief at the Peace Conference.

Within minutes of arriving at the Majestic Hotel in Paris, Mary hears a commotion in the street outside. A man has been shot and killed. She is horrified to earn that the victim is her uncle. The police report the attack as a chance robbery by a known thief, who is tracked down and killed resisting arrest.

Mary is not convinced. Circumstances and the gunshot wound do not indicate theft as a motive. A scribbled address on Arthur’s notepad leads to her discovery of another body, a Russian Bolshevik. She suspects her uncle, and the Russian, were murdered by the same hand.

To investigate further, Mary takes a position working for the British Treasury, headed by J M Keynes.

But Mary soon finds herself in the backstreets of Paris and the criminal underworld.

What she discovers will threaten the foundations of the congress.

 

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 EXCERPT

Le Pistolet Fumant was an odd name for a restaurant located only a few yards from the Champs Elysees. Some may have considered it strangely appropriate to the subject of our intended conversation. The interior was warm, welcoming and tempting. A subdued light gave an intimate air to an arrangement of ornate tables and chairs cosseted with a flush of maroon velvet trimmed with gold. The only concession to its intriguing name was a pair of ancient muskets hung on the wall facing our entrance. The rich smells wafting from waiters’ trays and filtering through kitchen doors teased my senses and banished all other thoughts as we studied our menus in silence.

Visser had decided. He folded his menu and placed it on the table. He said, ‘Would you consider me too forward if I suggested we use each other’s Christian names instead of the “Mr” and “Miss” from now on?’

‘Not at all.’ I was surprised and pleased he had asked. ‘I would be happy to be called Mary or Maria.’

‘And I am plain Adam with no variant or nickname, I’m afraid.’

We smiled, then I quickly returned to the menu as a waiter approached. Our orders given, both of us seemed to be waiting for the other to initiate a resumption of unfinished conversation from the Astoria.

Eventually, he said, ‘Tell me more about the attack on Keynes and how you came to be following him that night.’

‘Oh, we haven’t finished with the enquiries into Arthur’s murder, have we?’

‘No, but there is no more to be done until I have made a few enquiries. Sazanov heads the most influential of the anti-Bolshevik groups in Paris, but there are others. I need to gather information on the current activities of all of them.’

‘Who would have that information?’

‘I have the SIS dossiers we used for briefing before our assignments in Eastern Europe. The French intelligence service should be able to help, but the Americans will probably have the most detailed information.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Colonel House’s assistant, and the information she offered was helpful but brief and incomplete.’

‘It’s Lansing and his entourage who have the data I need.’

‘Excuse my ignorance, but who is Lansing?’

‘He is Wilson’s Secretary of State, although Wilson doesn’t appear to have much faith in him. Lansing is fiercely anti-Bolshevik and opposed all contact with them. I am assured he holds current and voluminous files on all the parties fighting against Lenin, Trotsky and the Red Army.’

I supposed it made sense, but I had an uneasy feeling I was being side-lined. I related the story of my first visit to Bar Felix with Keynes, the retrieval of his notebook, my suspicions aroused by the scheming in street doorways and a sudden realisation of a possible entrapment with a camera. He heard me patiently and without interrupting while we were served with our aperitifs. Finally, I paused my narrative to tackle the mussels we had both ordered.

‘Tell me, Mary,’ he said, wiping his fingers on a napkin, ‘were you and Major Parkes surprised at the attackers’ use of weapons? You knew a trap had been laid.’

‘I didn’t anticipate weapons would be used in anger for the entrapment. I imagined threats would have been sufficient if needed.’ I paused, remembering the shock of the gunshot. ‘Put it down to my naivety. I should have explained more to Major Parkes, then he would have been prepared. But… we were rushed… there wasn’t time.’ I shook my head to dismiss images of John’s wound. ‘No, please ignore those excuses. It was my fault. I was too eager to scupper their plans. I didn’t think it through properly.’

I was half expecting him to protest that I was blameless and say words to ease my conscience, but he didn’t. He didn’t react at all. I wasn’t sure if he approved of my actions or thought I was foolish. His expression told me nothing. The mussels were finished. Delicious. I dabbed my lips with the napkin, then continued to recount the Keynes incident and its aftermath.

Paul Walker

 

Paul lives in a village 30 miles north of London, where he is a full-time writer of fiction and part-time director of an education trust. His writing in a posh garden shed is regularly disrupted by children, a growing number of grandchildren, and several dogs.

 

Paul writes historical fiction. The William Constable series of historical thrillers is based around real characters and events in the late sixteenth century. The first two books in the series – “State of Treason” and “A Necessary Killing” were published in 2019. The third book, titled “The Queen’s Devil,” was published in the summer of 2020.

Travel forward a few hundred years from Tudor England to January 1919 in Paris and the setting for Paul’s latest book, “A Turbulent Peace”. The focus of the World is on the Peace Conference after WW1 armistice. Add a dash of Spanish Flu, the fallout from the Russian Revolution, and you have a background primed for intrigue as nations strive for territory, power, and money.

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Book Spotlight and Excerpt: The Eisenhower Chronicles by M. B. Zucker

 

In 1938 he was a lieutenant colonel stationed in the Philippines; by 1945 the world proclaimed him its savior. From leading the forces of liberal democracy against history’s most evil tyrant to the presidency, Dwight D. Eisenhower fought for and kept the peace during the most dangerous era in history.

The Eisenhower Chronicles dramatizes Ike’s life, portraying his epic journey from unknown soldier to global hero as only a novel could. He is shown working with icons such as FDR, Winston Churchill, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and confronting challenges like D-Day, the Little Rock Crisis, and Sputnik.

Eisenhower’s legacy is grounded in defending the world from fascism, communism, and nuclear weapons. This novel shows how he accomplished it all and takes readers into his mind and soul, grounding the history in the man who made it.

Advance Praise:

“An ambitious novel that illuminates the complexity of one of the great figures of the twentieth century. Ike's homespun manner concealed a remarkably skilled, at times Machiavellian, leader who guided the nation through perilous times. M.B. Zucker brings us inside Eisenhower's world as he wrestles with a series of decisions affecting the survival of free government and the fate of humanity. This is a fun, fast-paced, informative read that captures the man and his times. Highly recommended.”

-Stephen F. Knott, Professor of National Security at the Naval War College and author of Washington and Hamilton: The Alliance that Forged America

“A most important aspect of M. B. Zucker's The Eisenhower Chronicles is that it dispels at least two myths about Ike's presidency: that it was but an appendage to his illustrious military career; and, that Eisenhower was more prone to react to events rather than shape them. In a lively and innovative style, Zucker shows his readers how Ike managed the Cold War during its most dangerous period and helped make his country a more fair and just society at home. A must read for anyone interested in mid-20th century America.”

-Alvin S. Felzenberg, presidential historian and author of The Leaders We Deserved and a Few We Didn't

“Zucker's achievement is monumental. In a fast-paced narrative, he captures Dwight D. Eisenhower with mastery and precision-his thoughts, emotions, decisions, and actions. The smooth prose and rich detail put the reader right there with Ike at every step of his military career and presidency, with an accurate and compelling rendering. This is historical fiction at its best.”

-Yanek Mieczkowski, presidential historian and author of Eisenhower's Sputnik Moment: The Race for Space and World Prestige

“This is a vast and minutely detailed account of Eisenhower as both supreme Warlord and President of the United States at a time of truly massive transformation.It is magisterial in its informed account and sweeping in its scope. It is a panoramic study, intensively researched, of Eisenhower as both a private person and a world figure.... Five stars and highly recommended.”

- The Historical Fiction Company Editorial Reviews

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 Excerpt 

Ike visits the 101st Airborne the night before D-Day in the most famous moment of his life. This story is told in the first person to make it more intimate. 

I clasped my hands behind my back and walked toward the jumpers, saying nothing to Kay or Bedell. As I approached the warriors I noticed that many of them had painted their faces black. That served two purposes. It helped to camouflage them at night when they would meet the enemy and helped them feel brave. Some jumpers on the outer rim of the group glanced at me, then looked again to confirm the sight. They stood at attention.

“Hey, it’s Ike!” one shouted.

“Look, the Supreme Commander’s here to see us off!”

“Holy cow, Ike’s here!”

Soon dozens, if not hundreds, of jumpers excitedly ran toward me, encircling me in a large group. I’ve never seen so many excited faces. I can’t think of a more humbling experience. These men were the real heroes. They were about to risk their lives to defeat a racist monster. Yet they were excited to see me, who couldn’t compare to their bravery and duty.

“At ease! Come on!” I exclaimed. “Gather around!” I glanced at the crowd, looking as many jumpers in the eye as I could. “Smoke if you got ‘em, jumpers!”

They laughed; many pulled out cigarettes and lighters. I decided it was finally time for me to enjoy one too. I pulled out my cigarette, only to realize I’d left my lighter in the car!

“Anyone got a light?” I asked. They laughed again.

“Here ya go, Ike!” one exclaimed with a thick southern accent. He lit my cigarette and I thanked him.

“You men ready to get the ball through their endzone?” I asked. That lit up their faces. They loved that their general spoke the way they did.

“You ever play ball, Ike?” one asked.

“I did at West Point!” I answered.

“You any good?”

“I nearly tackled Jim Thorpe!”

That led to some “ohs!” from the group.

“Nearly?” another jumper asked.

“Yup,” I replied to some laughs.

“Your team win?”

“Not exactly.” More laughs. I turned to the jumper closer to me.

“Where you from, Corporal?”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn, huh? You a Yankees fan?”

“That’s right!”

Dozens of jumpers groaned. I joined them. I asked a few others. A handful of states were mentioned. New Jersey. Arizona. California. Ohio. Virginia. I wanted to find one from Kansas, preferably Abilene. That would have been a hoot!

“Anyone from Kansas?” I asked after I gave up on trying to be lucky. No one responded beyond a few shaking their heads ‘no.’

“That’s a shame,” I said. “I’m going to need a job after we’ve hit Berlin!”

Some jumpers cheered.

“Don’t worry, General,” one said. “You can work at my ranch in Dallas!”

I smiled and nodded, pretending to consider the option. He continued.

“If I’m not there after the war you can ask my Pa. He’ll give you a job.”

I frowned. That burst the comradery, if for a moment. The reminder of coming death. For them and not for me. I toured several other groups of jumpers over the next hour or so before they took off. No other war in history so definitely lined up the forces of arbitrary oppression and dictatorship on the one hand against those of human rights and individual liberty. And they were the best of our side. They were plunging into the most vicious warfare imaginable, not only for America and Europe, but so the whole world could live in freedom and peace. They had no options of retreat. They had to succeed or die. I felt like a father to those young men when I was among them. But what kind of father sends his boys to kill and die? And they had real fathers waiting at home, anxious that their sons would return in one piece. And I took them away. No, I didn’t. Hitler did, by trying to rule the world. How can one man be so selfish? He was the ultimate example of narcissism. And those jumpers were the ultimate example of duty. I couldn’t be prouder of them.

“How about you?” I asked another jumper.

“What about me, General?”

“Where are you from?”

“Michigan.”

“Michigan,” I repeated. “How’s the fishing up there?”

“It’s great, sir.”

“Michigan’s a beautiful state. I’ve been fishing up there several times.”

I made a demonstration of my preferred fly fishing technique. That led to a brief discussion on the topic. I became solemn again.

“Are you scared?” I asked the Michigander.

“No, sir!” he declared.

“Well, I am. Many of you boys ain’t coming back.”

“We’re well briefed, sir. We’re ready.”

I smiled.

“We’re going to achieve full victory and nothing less. I can’t stress enough upon you all the historic magnitude of this undertaking. Your service will save the world.”

That led to more nodding—more determination of spirit!

My eyes filled as the last planes flew beyond my ability to see them a short time later. I wiped the tears with my sleeve and slowly made my way to the car.

“Well, it’s on,” I said to Kay. She said nothing. “It’s very hard to look a man in the eye when you fear you are sending him to his death.”

I sat in the car.

“I hope to God I know what I’m doing.”

 

M. B. Zucker

M. B. Zucker has been interested in storytelling for as long as he can remember. He discovered his love of history at fifteen and studied Dwight Eisenhower for over ten years. Mr. Zucker earned his B.A. at Occidental College and his J.D. at Case Western Reserve University School of Law. He lives in Virginia with his wife.

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Book Spotlight and Excerpt: The Girl from Bologna (Girls from the Italian Resistance) by Siobhan Daiko

 

 

Bologna, Italy, 1944, and the streets are crawling with German soldiers. Nineteen-year-old Leila Venturi is shocked into joining the Resistance after her beloved best friend Rebecca, the daughter of a prominent Jewish businessman, is ruthlessly deported to a concentration camp.

In February 1981, exchange student Rhiannon Hughes arrives in Bologna to study at the university. There, she rents a room from Leila, who is now middle-aged and infirm. Leila’s nephew, Gianluca, offers to show Rhiannon around but Leila warns her off him.

Soon Rhiannon finds herself being drawn into a web of intrigue. What is Gianluca’s interest in a far-right group? And how is the nefarious head of this group connected to Leila? As dark secrets emerge from the past, Rhiannon is faced with a terrible choice. Will she take her courage into both hands and risk everything?

An evocative, compelling read, “The Girl from Bologna” is a story of love lost, daring exploits, and heart-wrenching redemption.

Trigger Warnings:

War crimes against women

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EXCERPT

I went to visit Rebecca the afternoon after my parents left. I remember climbing the stairs to the piano nobile and following her into the Matatias’ living room. It was such a beautiful place. Intricate glass and ironwork chandeliers hung from the centre of the coffered ceiling. Thick carpets the colour of whipped cream stretched over darkly lustrous parquet. I loved the nineteenth-century paintings—landscapes and portraits—covering the walls, and the fact that there were books, most of them rebound, in rows behind the glass doors of huge, dark mahogany bookcases. Despite it being spring already, mammoth radiators released heat on a scale which at home Papà would have declared plain crazy—a heat redolent of a luxury hotel rather than a private dwelling, and of such intensity that, almost immediately, breaking out in a sweat, I’d had to take off my cardigan.

Giulia served us with tea on a silver tray, and we sat on leather chairs, eating homemade cupcakes while we chatted about the essay which we were due to hand in the following week. ‘Let’s go up to my room and listen to records,’ Rebecca suggested after we’d eaten our fill.

A radiogram held pride of place by her bedroom door—a Philips as chance would have it, like the cassette recorder I’m using now. Rebecca had eclectic tastes and her collection consisted of a bit of everything: Monteverdi, Scarlatti, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven. But it was her jazz records which thrilled me most. Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Fats Waller, Benny Goodman. I didn’t have any records of my own in those days, and relished listening to hers.

We tapped our feet to Ellington’s It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing). I didn’t speak any English—I still don’t—but not even the happy-go-lucky sentiment conveyed by the music could dispel the disquiet preying on my mind, a sense of impending doom. Ever since the Germans had occupied Bologna, they’d been rounding up Jews. I’d mentioned my fear for her family to Rebecca before, but she’d assured me that her father had covered all traces of their origins.

I fixed her with a concerned look as the song came to an end. ‘Did you hear that the Germans have been arresting Jews?’ I reached across the space between us and held Rebecca’s hand in mine. ‘Shouldn’t you and your parents go into hiding?’

She scoffed and squeezed my fingers. ‘We’re Bolognese. We haven’t done anything wrong. Father’s factory is manufacturing car parts. It’s important work and, much as he hates it, the Nazis buy them from him and send them to Germany. We’ll be fine, Leila. No need to be concerned.’

I took Rebecca at her word. What else could I do? We decided she should come to my place the next day, Sunday, so we could go for an afternoon hike along the porticoes leading to the Sanctuary of the Madonna di San Luca on a hill overlooking the city. It was our favourite passeggiata and we loved to walk under the winding vault arcades, over six hundred of them, almost four kilometres leading from the Saragozza gate at the edge of the old part of the city.

Rebecca saw me to the door and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘See you tomorrow.’ She paused and added with a blush. ‘I hope to see Dani too.’

‘You might well do so,’ I laughed. ‘I’ll ask him to come along with us.’

The next day, after lunch, I waited for her. The second hand on my watch ticked on into minutes, and the minutes ticked into an hour. I knew something was terribly wrong. Daniele offered to go and see what had happened. I insisted on going with him, a sick feeling in my stomach.

‘All will be well, don’t worry.’ My brother’s words were optimistic but I could see he was concerned. He ran a shaky hand through his thick, dark brown, wavy hair.

It only took us five minutes to get there, we ran so fast. We rang the bell and Giulia answered straight away. ‘They’ve been taken,’ she said, tears rolling down her face. ‘The SS came at dawn. Oh Dio,’ she sobbed, twisting her hands in her apron. ‘And now the Germans will move in here. I’ve been given a choice. To serve them or leave.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I will stay and look after things for my signori until the Allies get here and liberate us from those Nazi swine.’

Cavolo, I’m crying. I will have to stop recording now. Sorry, but I can’t go on…

I press the off switch and put down the microphone. Romeo, my big ginger cat, jumps up onto my lap. I stroke him and the action soothes me. My heartrate slows, my sobbing ceases and my breathing steadies. Romeo meows hungrily. ‘You’re a fickle lover,’ I tell him with a sad smile. ‘You only give me affection when you want to be fed.’

I go through to the kitchen and top up his bowl with kibble. On the table is Rhiannon’s application form. I glance at the girl’s photo. She’s a redhead sporting a hairstyle like Lady Di’s. Wide blue eyes. Very Celtic looking. Rhiannon wrote me a letter introducing herself, which I received last week. I’m looking forward to meeting her and, holding onto that realisation, I go to get ready for bed.

Siobhan Daiko

Siobhan Daiko is a British historical fiction author. A lover of all things Italian, she lives in the Veneto region of northern Italy with her husband, a Havanese dog and a rescued cat. After a life of romance and adventure in Hong Kong, Australia and the UK, Siobhan now spends her time indulging her love of writing and enjoying her life near Venice.

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